


Simply Meant to Be

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Multiple Lifetimes, Mystrade through the ages, Spot The Reference, Till Death Do Us Part, do not copy to another site, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Two men keep meeting in every new lifetime, unable to hold on. Will they ever be able to embrace their destiny... and each other?An unverifiable, purely subjective, fantastically theoretical purported history of Mystrade through the ages.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 28
Kudos: 92





	Simply Meant to Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts), [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> This is all Paia's fault. She just *had* to post a prompt that dug inside my head and wouldn't leave.
> 
> Bonus thanks to Mottlemoth for letting me borrow part of her scenario from No Quarter. (It's an amazing story that ends much better than mine. Go read it.)
> 
> CONTENT NOTE: I'm not going super in-depth on any of it now, but this fic contains references to murder, period-accurate homophobia, and potential dub-con. If any of that bothers you, give that back button a lil tap for me and have a nice day. Anyone coming along for the ride, thou hast been warned.

_To love and lose and love again, like seasons come and go. It’s what the odds are made for; it’s all we need to know…_

**MESOPOTAMIA - 3004 BC**

They were slaves plucked from faraway lands, no names beyond 'boy' and no hope of change. The world is a wicked place. There has been much talk of the crazy man building the boat, his talks of prophesy and one true God, his gathering of animals in pairs for mating and the strange beasts that began appearing in the wilds, creatures from across the world that had no business being here. They meet in the marketplace on the day the storm fills the sky, the crackle of energy in the air making the hairs on their arms stand out and their breath taste of excitement.

The animals are walking, two by two onto the ark, the man and his family watching the procession and the jeering crowds with caution. The fair boy, eyes of sky and skin like cream despite the desert sun, carefully takes the tanned hand of the one with eyes of midnight and a smile never lost despite the beatings. A tall thin man in the crowd with black robes contrasting hair of flame so like his own calls out about the horned horse running along the plain and the boy feels a longing to talk to the stranger, to see if they were from the same place, a home he no longer remembers. The pale one in white beside him, hair nearly a match for his clothes and body soft - a merchant perhaps - seems kind, and the boys share an unspoken dream of presenting themselves as workers, assistants to be trained in his ways if only he will steal them away.

Then the massive doors of the ark are being closed and in the space of a blink the men are gone, too late now to give voice to the boys' wild imagining of rescue. No matter. They will rescue themselves. They have lain awake in the night, fingers laced together and voices soft, whispering of a life somewhere far from here, somewhere safe where they can be happy.

They will leave tonight, meager belongings in a wrap of linen, the small store of food they have secreted to sustain them on the first leg of their journey.

Then the clouds open and the rain pours and the flood comes, roaring like a monster as it devours and swarms and ravages. Bodies floating like logs in the Euphrates, washed out of buildings ripped from the earth and swept from the open space like motes of dust in a gale.

A pair of boys in the debris, entwined like a knot in a carpet, necks broken and lungs full but faces painted with peace.

**ROME - 45 AD**

His name is Gregorius, head guard to the Emperor of the 4th Province when not out commanding the Southern Legion in his honor. He has been drilling his troops this day, sweat becoming merely a new layer under the red linen of his tunic and the leather of his _lorica musculata_ as they practice efficacy tempered with ferocity. The sweep of a gladius, the controlled stab of a bronze spearhead, the knowledge of the grapple and application of force to incapacitate or kill when unarmed. Tomorrow would see runs of courses on horseback, reacquainting his celeres with their beloved steeds and himself with the roll of powerful animal beneath him, the necessary balance to strike true in motion.

At his leisure til the evening meal, the heated waters of the baths call to his aching muscles as he strips down, clothes to be dealt with by an attendant or his own faithful servant (a gift from the Emperor) when he completes his rejuvenation in the caldarium. His head has just broken the surface of the water when the echoes of a gasp reach his ear. There in the corner, arms shielding his body from scrutiny like a vestal virgin, sits a man who has held a seat in Gregorius' heart since he arrived a half calendar past. Mycroftan was a Briton, captured from the North to be the Emperor's principle strategist after word of his brilliance reached the man. Scrolls bearing his maps, ciphers and calculations had been shared in the library at Alexandria, and borne far afield by Gallic scholars and junzi of the Orient. He was a valuable piece to be collected and utilized in the Emperor's court, helping to expand the footprint of his empire.

A fierce intelligence to match his fiery curls, skin like Corinthian marble, blue eyes like the waters of the Aegean and a lean frame the soldier would've paid tribute to for the rest of his life. Yet the man remained untouchable. For their Emperor is a ruthless and callous man beneath his patrician charms, and has sought more than once to bully the scholar into his bed, only halted by the claims of asexuality. An affair in secret was to court death if it should come to light and the inevitable demands of battle would mean leaving his beloved unguarded prey.

Instead they forged an unlikely alliance, sharing the occasional meal, Mycroftan teaching Gregorius the names of the stars and the intricacies of the written word, and the soldier introducing him to the basics of self-defense and the culinary wonders of the region. Friendship is enough, or so they've told themselves in the solitude of their rooms.

But this is the first time quite so much skin has been on display, and the air has never been perfumed with sandalwood and salt. Surely just one kiss, not stolen but freely given, could do no harm.

There is no evening meal. Instead there is a spectacle as the Emperor's personal guard, commander of his Southern Legion, has his limbs bound and is placed on a dais in the courtyard. There is wailing, struggle and disbelieving outcries as the stoic man's head is severed cleanly from his broad shoulders for 'treason against the realm.'

That night, the Emperor's bedchamber door opens to admit a thin pale man, the red rims of his eyes almost a match for his fiery curls. He's resigned, painfully aware of the reason behind his summons, of the implication of the goblets waiting on the table by the wide bed, the leather straps tied to the carved wood housing the thick mattress. His lips are cold where they meet the Emperor's in a brief press, skittering back a few steps when the man's arms reach to embrace him.

His trembling fingers wrap around the finely carved goblet, holding it aloft with a murmured 'salutaria' before blue eyes harden to sapphires as the other man drinks deeply of the ruby liquid. The poison is tasteless but fast-acting and will be his own fate once the beast before him is dead, lest he risk the wrath of the Imperial court for the assassination - justified though it feels.

Stepping over the writhing form on the floor, he takes up a knife, lights a smudge of herbs from a candle and moves swiftly to the balcony. A quick slice to his palm, the medicinal sting of the smoke, words offered to the gods who reside behind the moon bearing solitary witness to his sorrow and the deed is done. "To you, Gregorius my love. We shall seek each other in this life and the next, the bond shattered by time until we can be forever together."

The wine is sweet and he's dead before the goblet clatters to the tiles.

**BEVERLEY - 1350**

The town is small, quiet and subtly depressing. Its newest transplant is a curate from the city named Micah, here to spread the love of the Lord to the rural heathen. He's been in town nearly a whole hour before someone decides to warn him about the man in the woods.

His name is Grieg, but best to call him witch. A healer, communing with nature and shunned from their borders for his trafficking in white magicks. The barmaid, a sweet dark-hair'd thing named Moll, tells Micah that most of the townspeople will go to Grieg when prayers fail though no one speaks of the trend. She herself takes the man a basket of breads and ale once a week to supplement the vegetables he grows, the milk and cheese from his goat Anders, and his stores of meat from the forest game which he trades in winter.

Accompanying her on her next foray into the woods, which have a haunting loveliness, Micah meets the mysterious Grieg - and instantly doubts his heart. It must surely still be beating within the confines of his chest, cannot have in truth leapt from his mouth like the lame man and tumbled to the healer's feet. The man's eyes are not like the bitter yet invigorating brew he had sampled on a missionary trek to the East. The touch of his warmly callused hand does **not** send the blood singing in Micah's veins like a hymn to the Almighty. Surely not.

Over the next months they meet regularly, in the furtherance of Micah offering charitable companionship to an outcast. Naught else but the call any good Christian should heed. The moss tea and creamy cheese spread on hearty chunks of brown bread, served with affable companionship and laughter that warms more than the finest ale, is the same as communion. The shy grasp of hands in the gloaming no different than hands clasped in prayer. And surely such natural acts as the expression of love through the medium of the human form, shaped as it was by His hand, cannot be wrong - no matter the sinful sweetness of the pleasure it bears.

Micah's ears stay deaf to the rising whispers in the town, the heated hisses of rumor and superstition, the muted fall of booted feet that follow him one quiet autumn eve.

The hour is late, the sun already heading for her slumber - which is why the faint glow coming through the trees when he moves to depart Grieg's cottage causes a brief perplexity. Only when the torches come fully into view, carried by a group of townsfolk no less now a mob, does he understand. They think he has been bewitch'd, ensnared by the dark allure of the magic wielder, and they have come to rescue him from the snare. The rope quickly fashioned into a noose despite Micah's protestation is about to be slipped over Grieg's head when Micah screams, voice commanding as God himself as he demands they listen. It was he who fell into the pit, not the other, a man kind and gentle and good of heart. If any are to blame, it must be himself. And such a weaving of words does he manage that the townsfolk are persuaded - the curate will be put to death for his perversion, the healer merely expelled once it is finished. 

The rope is tight against his throat but oddly comforting, his collar saving his fragile and too-human skin from the coarseness of the binding. He shall pray a blessing for his beloved and commend his soul to Almighty God, shuffling loose the mortal coil in peace. Until Grieg in desperation to stand by his lover breaks loose of the hands holding him, a stone dropped in a still pond causing ripples that move through the crowd - until a downed form stumbles against the upturned log and the shiny shoes standing atop it slide at speed into the air and a resounding crack like a breaking heart fills the sudden ghost-quiet.

Resolving not to speak again of the strange madness that had gripped them, the townsfolk trickle to their homes, leaving only Moll to bear tearful witness to her friend as he weeps over the dead thing in his embrace.

**THE CARIBBEAN SEA - 1670**

Every sailor fears a pirate, and all pirates fear Lestrade. A hunter of renown with many years' experience of the sea, he's become just as ruthless as the men he hounds. A year ago, he had claimed the greatest prize of all: Mycroft Holmes, terror of the Caribbean, whose brilliant mind and elusive nature made him a force to be reckoned with. Now he finds himself at the man's mercy, having been captured following a ferocious chase when Holmes' ship _The Moth_ swooped in at the last instant like a bat out of Hades.

_So here's how it ends._ Slaughtered on his knees like a pig by a man he'd considered neutralized. Blood spilled in payment for the aggravation caused and the losses accrued when he had seen Holmes' ship sunk the previous annum.

Except the Captain lays out a proposition of a far more dangerous nature: in exchange for the (dubious) pleasure of his (grudging) company in bed on the remaining week's journey to Nassau, Lestrade will be given a week's pay and set free - to hunt Mycroft again or not as he chooses. Should he elect to remain unwilling he will spend the week in the brig, the ship will divert to Tortuga, and word will be sent of his presence onboard - all the better to stir interest and attendance at an auction where he will be sold to the highest bidder, to be used as they choose.

A sennight of willing prostitution in relative luxury with a man not entirely devoid of rakish charm despite being an invert... or a week in squalor with the scraps of his dignity before entering a living hell that could stretch out for years at the hands (and other appendages) of ravenous pirates. A simple decision perhaps, if not an easy one to make. Lestrade takes the hand offered to help him to his feet once he gives his assent, spins the man hard into the wood paneling of his quarters and mashes their lips together in a heated battle.

The week flies too fast as their bedsport becomes the stuff of fantasy: intelligent sparring and treatment just the right side of rough, the mutual giving and taking of warm bodies made to please each other, thunderous orgasms that leave him grateful of the whispered praise and tender brush of hands on sweat-soaked flesh.

The night before they make land Lestrade lies on Holmes' chest and resolves to put his case before the Captain - to stay on as crew, spending the days on the waves and the nights between the sheets in the Captain's quarters. Smiling to himself as sleep claims him, he misses the eyes open and staring out the small window at the starless night.

It's late when he awakens alone in a cocoon of cool linen, the sounds of a bustling port filtering through the timbers, but he reasons there must still be time. Holmes is nowhere to be seen but the quartermaster assures him they're replenishing supplies and leaving on the eventide, handing him his wages with a smile. Lestrade ambles through the town, stocking up on clean clothing and a few foodstuffs, drafting a letter to his agency informing them of his abrupt retirement, and bargaining with a jeweler for a pocketwatch he feels would suit his Captain.

Making his way back to the dock as the church bell strikes, Lestrade finds himself rooted to the spot, staring at the empty slip with a growing dread. Bootheels pounding as he races for the end of the dock, he scans the blinding horizon and just catches a familiar wink of blue in the distance. Greg watches him leave through a stinging blur of saltwater, and vows to track him down again - if only to take back the heart the pirate has managed to steal.

The hurricane that swallows his vessel just as he gains _The Moth_ in his sights a month later is hardly a surprise at all.

**VERSAILLES ET PARIS - 1792**

Mycroft Holness has been an influencer in the Court at Versailles for the past 6 years. Gifted the name 'Michelin' by Her Majesty he was a happy transplant from London by way of Vienna, his court manners ever a delight, his ease of converse in several tongues making him popular with visiting dignitaries, and his ruthless intelligence never quite hidden by his slightly foppish manner.

Then the trouble started, the rumblings in the provinces, the first sparks of social unrest from the hoi polloi that would nearly raze the country to the ground. Then came the unfair title of _Madame Déficit_ and the failed flight to Varennes and her poor frightened children. There was an end in sight, Mycroft knew, but it was bloody and terrifying.

So under secret orders her Michelin makes his way to Paris, seeking hope. And he finds it in a man, of all things. Grégoire du Lestrade is a dashing revolutionary (and double agent) who chanced upon Michelin quite by accident when the Englishman stumbled into le Café Mécanique and let slip he'd much prefer a cup of tea, unaware of Grégoire's proximity. A brief comedy of errors ensued as the merits of Darjeeling was the code for the new contact Grégoire was scheduled to meet that very day. They are a small group, an auxiliary to a league under a mysterious Englishman, tasked with rescuing worthy aristos and helping them across la Manche to safety.

Following a few days politely shackled in the cellar of a safehouse as the league members debate his sincerity and motives while awaiting a reply from England, Mycroft (as Michelin) is inducted under Grégoire's charge, helping the league devise stratagem, forge documents and on rare occasion use his love of languages and social skill to slip into the skin of necessary characters. It's almost fun despite the danger, and Mycroft nurtures the flickering flame of hope that he may yet be able to save his beloved Queen, the _princesse et dauphin_ who clung to his knees in the family rooms.

As the weeks bleed together like words on a damp newsprint, his hope begins to wane until Grégoire takes him as a lover. The aphrodisiacal properties of adrenaline and subterfuge were not common topics in the journals of Eton and Cambridge, and Mycroft does wonder sometimes about any lingering effects good French wines and lovemaking on satin sheets might yet have on him. But as a distraction from the Terror in which they live, it proves an excellent one.

The trees bear bitter fruit as the slaughter in Place de la Concorde stains the soil. Michelin learns the Royal family has been captured mere hours after approval had been granted to take a contingent to Versailles and rescue them. Devastated as he is, even Grégoire is helpless to do aught else but take him to bed and hold him as he cries. The King's impending execution in the new year does not bode well for Marie Antoinette, and with the mysterious head of the League back at home there is little hope of saving him.

A devastatingly short time later Michelin is betrayed by one of his informants, spotting his tail just in time to divert away from the safehouse before the gendarme lay hands on him. Hauled before the Tribunal and identified by a terrified courtier as a favorite of the Queen, _bien entendu_ he is found guilty of treason, collusion with the aristos and causing offence to good mores - but sentencing is postponed in favor of a private audience with Robespierre, who declares the only possible way for Michelin to save himself is betrayal of the League members, one of which he surely must be. He almost cries but manages a mien of rigid formality and the stiff upper lip of his forebears until they send him back to his cell to think over their proposal. He does not need the time (already knows his answer) but Robespierre appreciates the ironic appearance of fairness.

Before the dawn fully breaks a changing of the guard turns out to be Grégoire and a driver who smuggle him out into a waiting cart, their goal the harbor and a small skip bound for Calais and on to England. The guards give chase until capture seems imminent, and a hidden fork in the road will only be made if something slows the soldiers. Following an oath to meet in London sealed with a tear-flavored kiss Grégoire jumps from the cart and into the guards' path, allowing the cart carrying Michelin (soon again to be Mycroft) to fly down the narrow fork to safety.

The thud of Mycroft's shoe as he steps onto the deck of the _Daydream_ sounds like an echo, perhaps of the blade landing home in a bloody city many leagues to the south.

**WHITECHAPEL - 1888**

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it... and it goes by the name of London.

And in that city there's a small section called Whitechapel, and a copper named Gregson who was proud to serve the Queen and wear his blues assigned to patrol it. A short ways away is a librarian by the name of Michael Holmes working in the research hall of Barts, timid as a mouse and clever as the fox whose hair color he shares. 

A short strings of brutal murders had started back in the spring, not ending as summer flashed, leaving the community to shiver in their houses and slums despite the rank heat. One night a man walks through the doors of the Leman Street house, shy and sweating in his tailored suit, mopping at his ginger hair with a limp handkerchief and clutching an oiled paper folder. The sergeant behind the desk is a burly and surly man named Atherton with a bushy beard of copper wire - and perhaps the recognition of another member of the Redheaded League is the only reason he doesn't immediately boot the man out of H Division. Instead he calls the constable on patrol to watch the desk and talk to the man, and takes his dinner break at the Brown Bear, promising to bring Gregson back a meat pie.

In the space of a quarter hour Michael has his theories and all supporting evidence for each laid out in neat divisions, leaving the constable in awe at his reasoning. A handful of plausible suspects, examination of the newspaper articles and circulated photos, and the results of private testing done on 2 of the victims in the lab at Barts. Moreover it seems the killer is likely to strike again within the fortnight. Unfortunately at the moment, Chief Inspector Abberline is under considerable strain over the continuing debacle and is fed up to the neck with press and wild speculative theory alike. Even if Gregson could convince an Inspector to listen, they're just as likely to think Michael is the culprit as pass his theories up the chain for consideration.

Instead they meet for the odd cup of tea or quiet supper between the end of Michael's shift and the start of Gregson's rounds, talking endlessly and effortlessly about the suspects and who to maybe leak the research to amid discussions of books and music they like, soft-spoken dreams of where all they'd like to see someday. Gregson is aching to see the Caribbean where all them pirates met watery fates and strange fruits grew, while Michael finds himself drawn to Italy for the food and history lying rich in the region.

Gregson is the oldest of six, having worked since the age of 9 and currently sleeping in the division basement so he can send all his money to his ma. Michael is an orphaned only child, raised by an uncle who manages his inheritance and had seen him properly educated. The house lay waiting should he ever need to escape the City, the not-quite-subtle hints he might find a wife and settle down someday roundly ignored.

There is only the tingle when they shake hands at the beginning and end of each meeting, and the way Gregson's guts turn to jelly anytime he's ludicrous enough to make Michael laugh. It's all it can be. To ask for more is dangerous, to grant it suicidal.

In the end it comes to nothing. Michael is caught late at Barts, flushed and fluttering against the nagging worry about his friend who has seemed so doggedly determined about the case lately. Too determined. The murder window is closing in a few hours; if Michael is anywhere near correct in his calculations, the attack must be tonight. A percentage of the triangle of possible scenes falls squarely over Gregson's beat and the plucky constable has been fractiously eager to walk the remainder - to stop the monster once and for good. But he will be alone if he tries, no one at H Division yet convinced and Michael unable to get away in time.

When the call comes through to Leman Street, Atherton is on the desk. _Body of a young male, pulled from the Thames. Stab wound beneath right shoulder, broken bones in hand, slit throat. Wearing policeman's uniform._

**LONDON - MODERN DAY**

A London DI, a 'minor' government official, and one simple quirk of genetics, attitude and fate called Sherlock - a catalyst in human form. Still, it doesn't happen straight away.

At first, Mycroft is aware of an elevated heartrate while examining the latest surveillance on his brother. A man in jeans and a leather jacket helping him out of the alley he was sleeping in. The man's file is procured for threat assessment, minus the ID photo which surely should have been included. He suspects his PA might have nicked it for covert mooning.

Next comes a darkened warehouse in the dead of night, attitude and decency wrapped in a cheap suit and - oh. Very lovely brown eyes. A shade nowhere near mundane, given the way his heart alarmingly skips a beat when they lock into his past the glare of the headlights. An apology instead of the usual test of bribery. A gentleman's agreement - information on a need-to-know basis... as determined by the one not biologically linked to Sherlock. The odd dinner so Greg isn't always on the clock. The odd pint down the pub so Mycroft doesn't always have the upper hand.

A decade passes. 10 years of late nights and assistance on cases, dinners and quiet well wishes on birthdays, a wedding, a divorce, another wedding, murder and holiday punch and the general mayhem associated with Sherlock... and something else underneath. A subterranean tension that receives an annual torquing and minimal acknowledgement.

They never talk about the dreams (the timing never seems right, their relationship never _that_ sort) and so they suffer in silence through the fractured memories bubbling to the surface, the snapped threads of a dozen lifetimes weaving themselves back in to a single big picture neither can see the true shape of just yet. It makes sense; they only have half the pieces.

Then Moriarty happens. And Magnussen. The debacle at Sherrinford, a 'sabbatical' and a quiet commanding request. Because Mycroft isn't as strong as he thinks and no one knows that better after all this time than Greg.

It's enough to see him take some long-overdue leave, throw a bag in the car and head out of the city. Lestrade turns up at Mycroft's other home (or only, now the Kensington flat's being sold.) It's a little place, practically a cottage, in a quiet spot near Berkshire that even Sherlock doesn't really know about and so homey despite the isolation that Greg instantly feels at peace.

Dinner in the charmingly rustic village. A bottle of surprisingly good local wine. A nightcap - to say thank you again, never mind the assurance it's not needed, has **never** been a part of this... even if sincere thanks is nice. A fire and socked feet. The swirl of amber liquid making a kaleidoscope of the flames. A move to stand, a steadying touch that unbalances. The first brush of lips as a soft grip dares to tighten fractionally. And it's like a key in a lock, opening Pandora's box, the cupboard to Narnia, everything rushing out in a whoosh.

The feel of linen and satin and boiled wool. Blood, salt, leather, wine, the medicinal tang of herbs. Fire and pain and the ring of metal. The bizarre certainty of your death in another time, awareness of sands through the cosmic hourglass like so many grains on a beach.

'It wasn't a dream' is out of their mouths before they realize, the insane realization that this kiss is not their first, just as it will not be their last. This life though....? 

_Gregoire. Mycroftan. Grieg. Michael. Gregorius. Michelin. Darling. Hellion. Lover. Beast. Angel mine._ Names echoing through time, whispers of the past. Of lives that were, the men they were, the single pulsing thread tying everything together like a winding road on a map.

"It's you," the former British Government manages between desperate kisses to every part of Greg's face he can reach. "Oh, God. Greg. It's always been you."

"No, darlin'," Greg breathes as he gathers the other half of his soul into his arms, vowing to never let go so long as they both shall live. "It's always been us."

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the basic thing. There will be further standalone pieces that flesh out some of the scenarios, which I will link back to this one. (I have 3 in mind currently, though you're welcome to cast a vote if there was one you really wanted to see more of.)
> 
> In the meantime, comments and kudos are my food. Thank you for reading.


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